Chagrin
by LadyCat
Summary: On a lazy afternoon, Draco contemplates what should be, and what actually is and finds it just right. HD, no spoilers


Draco Malfoy likes cock.

It's humiliating. Well, no, actually it's anything but humiliating when he has Harry blank-eyed and gasping, promising anything and everything if Draco will just go back to what he's doing. But when Draco _thinks_ about it, it's humiliating. Draco Malfoy is permitted to like arse—it's not quite the same thing as the way cretins such as Ron Weasley like boobs, but it implies a certain superiority that makes it slightly more acceptable. More conventional, if such labels can be applied to Draco at all.

Acceptable or not, though, the sad fact is that Draco Malfoy doesn't just like cock. He _craves_ it. His body isn't nearly as delicate or as waif-like as rumor now places it, but despite being the taller, Draco is significantly smaller and a great deal more slender than Harry's stockiness. It's amazing that a boy who has lived his life undernourished and deprived has become as filled out as he has, not that Draco's complaining.

Well, he's not complaining about _that_, anyway. Another thing Draco isn't supposed to like, but does, is how good it feels to be under Harry. Or on top of Harry. Or sitting on his lap, legs and arms wrapped around him like one of those creeping vines that Professor Sprout has been having them tend for the last two weeks. Draco has a stomach-turning fondness for that position, really. It lends itself to so many unique locations and Harry has a habit of slamming Draco into things, which Draco is also not complaining about.

He _does_ complain about the bruises he receives. But that's mostly to get Harry to rub bruise-ointment into his back, something that takes nothing less than a half an hour. Usually a great deal more.

"I can see you staring."

Draco hates it when he blushes, and hates it more that Harry has a knack in creating them. Ignoring the bright red splotches he knows covers his cheeks like paint, Draco sniffs. "Are you jealous, Potter?"

Harry is reclining under a large oak tree, the leaves a riot of golds and browns with the occasional red that unfortunately looks incredibly good against Harry's pinkish complexion. It does _nothing_ for Draco's, of course, which is another reason that Draco privately thinks that Harry is at least as vain as Draco is. Or he would be if he had the observational skills of a functional human, as opposed to the slug he often believes he is. Perhaps it's those muggles who raised him who are to blame? From Harry's terse descriptions, Draco thinks that the behavior patterns of a slug are possibly too good for the Dursley's.

"I'll get you to call me Harry yet, Draco," he says idly.

Draco makes a 'psh' sound, mentally amending that he already _has_. In private and in his head, Draco can't think of him as anything but Harry anymore. Where people can hear him, however, Draco has certain images to maintain and the verbal denigration of the boy he sleeps with almost every night is high up on the list.

The sight of Neville Longbottom laughing as some Gryffindor female Draco can't recognize from the back taunts him. Is it something about bravery that addles Gryffindor-ish hormones? Or whatever it is that controls the length of ones cock? Over the last few months—something that has nothing at all to do with Harry first shoving him into an empty classroom and kissing him homosexual—Draco has been making a list. The Slytherin boys are easy enough verify, but cataloging the lengths and various thickness of all the other male students in the school is taking all of Draco's Slytherin cunning.

Mostly because he _refuses_ to be caught. His reputation is already in shambles from becoming Harry Potter's boyfriend—there are times when Draco would rather be called Harry's bitch than suffer through such empty niceties—but this would utterly ruin it. While homosexuality is not the problem Harry and, humiliatingly, Granger have explained that it is in the muggle world, it isn't all that common. And a boy who gets a reputation for staring at other people's cocks with fixated glee is a boy who will never again be able to use the bathrooms when other boys are inside of it. This is a problem given there are only so many functioning bathrooms.

Whoever said that boys don't primp or otherwise enjoy their time cleansing the way girls do is _lying_.

"So who is it this time?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh. You're blushing, Draco."

God blast the Malfoy fair skin! Grumpy and disgusted more with himself than anything, Draco doesn't object when Harry tugs him back against Harry's chest. The leaves have started falling, creating a scattered carpet of colors Draco refuses to acknowledge is actually rather pretty. There's too much red and gold for him to publicly approve of it ... but it is pretty, the lush green melding with a blue sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds. It's as picturesque as Hogwarts ever gets, those rare days before the rains start.

Harry is very warm and solid behind him. It's comfortable, Draco has to admit with a sigh. Particularly when he tucks his head into the alcove between Harry's neck and shoulder, watching the other students cavort and tease each other in the fading golden sunlight. Harry's hand slips between the buttons of his robes and underneath the thin shirt Draco wears to dance against Draco's stomach.

Draco pretends that it's Harry who enjoys stroking Draco's stomach. Only Harry. And that he most certainly did not nudge and badger until the stomach-stroking became almost habitual.

"So who is it?"

Draco shivers, feeling Harry's voice more than hearing it. "Hm?"

"Who's cock are we looking at today?"

Instantly, Draco goes stiff. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he grounds out. He tries to sit up, surprised—as he always is—when Harry tightens his grip and refuses to let him. It's not Harry's stubbornness that surprises Draco, or even the strength that he still underestimates even when it's sliding deep inside him. It's that Draco never wants to fight it.

"Draco," Harry says, his voice at once implacable and suffused with a gentleness Draco doesn't know how to handle. "Who are you looking at?"

Is he allowed to have _no_ secrets? But Harry isn't calling him a disgusting pervert—he better not, the things he likes to get up to that Draco _never_ refuses. Actually, he's scanning over his friends with the same distantly considering expression Draco knows that he wears. Harry is also blushing. Draco doesn't need to twist around to see that; he feels it, heat against the back of his head and neck.

This isn't something that Draco's shared with Harry before. It's not that he wants secrets with Harry, but he's still uncertain about so many things even after several months of official dating and years of hatred-born study. "Longbottom," he says, reluctant and worried though he hopes his voice doesn't express that.

It must, though, because Harry stops tracing random patterns on Draco's belly, withdrawing his hand to pet Draco's hair instead. The fine strands offer no resistence to Harry's touch, twining around his fingers—Draco knows, because he's watched this in the mirror before. He's never claimed that _he_ wasn't a vain git!

"Oh, yeah, Neville's pretty hung," Harry agrees readily. "Bigger than anybody but Dean."

"Dean? Really?" Privately, Draco's money has always been on Seamus when it came to the Gryffindor boys.

"Yup. In our year, anyway."

There's something teasing abut Harry's voice, but his fingers never stop moving through Draco's hair and it's becoming harder to concentrate. In fact, the only cock Draco's currently thinking about is the one that's growing against his arse. He's gotten _very_ good at casting disillusionment and silencing spells over the last few weeks: Harry likes it outside and Draco likes it wherever he can get it. He starts mentally recounting what he'll need to do, saying, "And in Gryffindor over all?"

Harry turns so that the arm of his glasses is pressing against Draco's cheek. His voice is warm and rough, wetness tickling his ear as much as the tantalizing sound of Harry speaking so huskily, "You'll never guess."

"And why would I do anything as ridiculously immature as _guess_?"

Harry laughs and licks Draco's earlobe. "Prat. We're discussing our classmates cock-size. That's hardly mature."

"Well, I can't really see first years doing it, Potter," he snaps—and then stifles a moan as Harry bites where he's just licked. "They don't even know what to do with their cocks, let alone how good—ouch, not so hard!—others are."

Harry doesn't change the pressure of his nibbles, well aware that Draco is lying about the pain. Sometimes Draco regrets having taught Harry how to determine when Draco means it and when he doesn't. It makes riling him up during class _very_ difficult—and worse, now others are looking to Harry for clues before they react to whatever Draco's said! It's horrible. Harry's influence is undermining _everything_.

Draco wiggles until he's between Harry's thighs, arse pressed firmly against Harry's half-hard cock. He starts a steady rocking motion that the billowing robes around them will muffle. Well, they'll _probably_ muffle it. Draco thinks about the disillusionment charms again.

"Let's go at this from another direction," Harry says after Draco's earlobe is well sucked and nibbled upon. "Who's cock do you think is the _smallest_ in Gryffindor?"

The list immediately appears in his mind. Draco barely notices that he's starting to salivate as he runs through the top ten and then skims down to the bottom of the list. He really _does_ love cock. He loves the taste of it, the scent, the feel of something hard-except-not slipping between his lips until he has to severally control his gag-response. He loves the feel of it, warm and slightly throbbing as it slides up his body, filling him in a way that nothing—not his fingers, not the toys he refuses to tell Harry he used to play with—can ever truly fill. He loves the patterns of blue veins against varying colors of skin. How thick, or long, or thin they are, and how those differences will affect Draco's enjoyment. Whether they're totally covered with wiry curls, or if its sparse or even trimmed. If the sac underneath is heavy, or small, and how sensitive it might be. If ...

It's really rather amazing that Draco's had exactly one lover, given how much he thinks about cock. Well, one lover and three flings that meant absolutely nothing except in terms of getting rid of Draco's gag-reflex.

"Hm," Draco says after a few moments of thought. "I'm going to have to go with the Weasley who used to be Head Boy. The one who was a gigantic arse."

Harry's laughter is like warm butterbeer, pooling in Draco's stomach. "Well, he was _gigantic_ all right."

Draco abruptly sits up. "No way."

There's an odd half-smile playing on Harry's lips, light reflecting off of his glasses. Draco knows exactly why Harry's looking like that—all the Weasley's are a touchy subject between them, but the one who'd gone to the ministry is something even more than that—and is grateful that the mood hasn't been broken yet. To ensure it, he lets his hand drop between them, fingering over Harry's now very hard cock.

"Way," Harry says, and then gasps. "And that's cheating!"

"Cheating? Are we playing for something, then? Also, you're lying. There's no way that he's the largest you've ever seen. He's ... he was _fussy_! How can one be fussy, if ones cock is that large?"

Harry's eyes were dilating, his breathing quick and uneven. "I never measured him, or anything, but he was pretty big."

"Under a foot?" Draco demands.

"Wha—yes, it was under a foot! He wasn't _abnormal_, just ... big. Like," and here Harry loses his arousal in favor of chuckling. "George told me a story, about the first time he and his girlfriend tried to have sex."

Draco starts laughing, too. "Tried?"

"Yup, tried. Several times, according to George. And I believe him, since I have seen it in the showers and most of the family can't understand why such a gigantic prick actually _gets_ the gigantic prick." Harry's grinning, eyes dancing behind his glasses. His body is rising up to meet Draco's still-moving hand, but lust isn't the primary current between them. Draco knows—_knows_—that even without the hormones that keep them simmering almost constantly, he'd still be in this exact position, with Harry looking at him just this way.

Draco forgets to cast the disillusionment spell and just leans forward.

When they pull back, both of them are blushing furiously. Harry ducks his head into Draco's neck, muttering something uncomplimentary about students who don't know when they're supposed to look away, and they don't cheer for Ginny and _Dean_ do they?

Draco just leans back against Harry and plots how to make their current audience go away. There's a fuzzy, low level desire to slide down the length of Harry's body and take him within his mouth—but it's not urgent. Not really. Because as much as Draco loves cock, and in particular Harry's cock, he loves Harry more.

And there's nothing humiliating about that at all.


End file.
